Even though my little brother may live 561 miles away, it does not mean I don't think about him.

Now, I say "little," but Matt is 18 years old and a high school senior.

He currently plays tuba for his high school marching band, when just last year he was playing alto saxophone.

I am going to be brutally honest and say that my brother obviously did laps in the gene pool while I needed the assistance of arm floaties.

He can draw, sing, act, play multiple instruments and succeed at anything he attempts.

Matt, who wants to major in theatre, has decided to become the third generation Bass male to attend Tech. He came to visit me from St. Louis, Mo. a week before we got out for Christmas break.

I wanted him to see the campus, the band building and the theatre department. So, my roommate, Alicia, took him to her Theatre Appreciation class that Friday morning at 9:30.

After class, Don Stevens, a professor of theatre, kindly took Alicia and my awestruck little brother for a tour through Howard Auditorium and Stone Theatre.

As Matt retold this experience to me and how he said his jaw dropped at how astronomically bigger Howard Auditorium was compared to his high school stage, I could not help but envision him as the four-year-old boy who used to decapitate my Barbie dolls.

It was the epitome of the phrase, "They grow up so fast."

I am only 18 months older than him, but thinking about all the things we have been through together, I couldn't help but feel like a mother.

In 1991 our parents divorced. During most of our childhood we stuck together whether it was living with our Dad in St. Louis or our Mom somewhere in Louisiana.

One day after school, when we were living with our Mom in New Orleans, we got off the bus, proceeded to try and enter our house, but discovered the door was locked.

Mom was at work, we were in third and fifth grade and did not have cell phone access.

As Matt went around checking for any unlocked windows, I studied the door. I yelled for him to come back and told him I had an idea.

Matt never liked any of my ideas. He oppressed me a lot of the time and the fact that he usually got hurt 100 percent of the time because of my ideas was pure coincidence.

Located at the bottom of our door was a small square cut-out entrance complemented with a thick, opaque rubber flap.

Most would call this a "doggy door," but in our case, it was the only way in. I asked him if it was possible for him to fit through and he replied nervously, "I don't knnnow É"

I made him try.

He had to move his shoulders diagonally to fit through to his waist, but then we came to a "bum" in the road.

In despair (and utter amusement), I helped my little brother through the tiny opening with a gentle shove.

After a few seconds of yelping in pain, he unlocked the door.

Now, this little boy I made play with me and my Easy Bake Oven É who I would start fights with for no reason just to beat him upÉwho managed not to break a single bone while growing up with me as a big sisterÉwill only be a few moments away next year and be destined to do great things.

And even though he is over a foot taller than me at 6'1", I will always refer to Matthew as my little brother.

Erin Bass is a sophomore journalism major from Bossier City and serves as a news editor for The Tech Talk. E-mail comments to emb023@latech.edu.